


Juvenile Follies

by itsaquinnquinnsituation



Series: X Years Later [24]
Category: Newcastle (2008)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5484926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsaquinnquinnsituation/pseuds/itsaquinnquinnsituation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Approximately fourteen to fourteen and a half years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Juvenile Follies

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters or the plot of the original movie belong to me. I am not making money off my work, which is written for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> This is my universe and exactly how I see it. Writing should be enjoyed, not judged.
> 
> Happy Holiday Season, folks! My best wishes to every single one of you and thank you for being my loyal readers! 
> 
> (I rated as 'mature' to be on the safe side in case someone misunderstands one of the scenes here...)
> 
> I highly recommend everyone to watch this movie.

***

 

Fergus had been standing in the large office kitchen, leaning backwards onto the windowsill, for the past fifteen minutes. The coffee in his mug, which was giving off an eddy of steam just when he first poured it, has long since cooled off, untouched, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was just lost in his thoughts.

 

It started when, upon walking into the kitchen to get his usual three o’clock energizer, he overheard two young underdogs talking. He was not into eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, but something they said, something one of them said to be more precise, really jarred his ear. He stopped before reaching the coffeemaker, and he must have started to stare because the lads shut up immediately at that point, then awkwardly cleared their throats, grabbed their half-finished americanoes and scurried away. And Fergus proceeded to make his own coffee.

But he didn’t stop thinking. He didn’t care that the underdogs were wasting their time yapping over coffee – after all, he’d been at that point in life himself once, though by now almost a decade ago and in a different office, a young unpaid intern, trying his best to learn the company trade through making countless paper copies, posting mail, ordering stationary and making Starbucks runs for his boss. So, that part didn’t bother him at all. And the conversation was nothing in and of itself also, really. Something, something, something – the handsome ginger lad chirped. “Oh, no, that’ll never happen” – his slender, bald companion responded, - “She’s so out of my league…”

And that. That was the expression that prodded at Fergus’ heart like an Olympian’s spear.

So out of my league.

He poured his coffee, momentarily burning his hand on the pot, then took a couple of steps towards a pristine white windowsill and leaned backwards onto his elbows, cradling his steaming mug.

Out of my league.

 

Yeah, he remembered that. 

He remembered that feeling very well, though it was so, so many years ago. Back in the day when he liked to put those semi-permanent colours into his hair and paint his nails – believe it or not, nail polish was the first thing he bought with his very first paycheck – he never really worried about leagues. He understood that he was different, he *understood* that he had a hard time fitting in, but he never actually contemplated leagues until that infamous night by the bonfire. What was it that Jesse said in reference to Andy? Something like – “What do you think, he’s gonna let you suck his dick?” Something along those lines. Of course, right at that time, it hurt and that was all Fergus could notice, but later, the events of their outing running a marathon on a basketball court in his head, Fergus dissected it some more. Now, he knew for a fact that if Andy was simply just “not gay”, he, Fergus, wouldn’t care, he wouldn’t care *so much*, anyway - that is, sure, perhaps it would put some brakes on his fantasising about Andy on sleepless nights and all, but surely he would be able to *understand* that sexual preferences are not something someone can choose and surely he would still end up being great friends with Andy, but... 

But, on the other hand… 

On the other hand, if Andy was “out of his league”, that was a completely different matter. Then it didn’t even matter if Andy was straight or gay, he was unattainable either way. And Fergus was not worthy of his attention. He didn’t deserve it. And there was no way somebody like Andy would have any reason to be interested in somebody like him. And he was pretty sure that *this* was exactly what Jesse meant.

 

He smiled.

 

In the beginning, it was really excruciating, although in that somewhat exciting, tantalizing sort of way. He reveled in Andy’s presence. He was absolutely captivated by him and every second that he spent near him was a second he was in some kind of a parallel dimension, where the laws of time, nature and normalcy were completely bastardized. Andy would show up on the doorstep of his house and Fergus would greet him at the threshold, heart pole-vaulting out of his chest: ‘Hey. Um… Jesse is… out/in the toilet/still sleeping.’ And Andy would smile and respond: ‘I’m here for you.’ That was their little routine for awhile. Because Fergus sorely needed to hear it, desperately wanted to know it for sure, that this lad was really looking for *him*. Of course, he felt himself a charity case of Andy’s – how couldn’t he? – Andy was out of his league. 

But then...

And then it was one of the Friday nights or something - one such night where something big was going on in the town, and Jesse and all the lads were out, and there were crowds of people stumbling drunk outside the pubs, talking so loudly that the wind carried their voices all the way down Newcastle beach to the waterfront residences in jumbled, nonsensical snippets - that Fergus realised that for the past three hours or so, he had been doing nothing but lying across Andy’s bed. And Andy was lying beside him. It hit him so suddenly that he sat up and turned over to look at Andy and he just barely stopped himself from reaching over and touching him, just to be sure. But Andy simply returned his look and smiled. The way he always did. And that’s how Fergus knew. That whatever league he was in, in Andy’s mind at least, Andy was right there with him.

 

 

Now, fast forward a few years, to a time maybe just two or three years ago. To the time that Fergus changed jobs to work for one of the most well-known advertisement companies in the world. To the time he could buy at least three thousands bottles of nail polish with his bi-weekly paycheck. To the time he drove an Audi, owned several Apple gadgets and had a closet full of expensive ties. And - to the time when – when Andy was still working as a surfing coach, and still taking on lifeguarding and pool-minding shifts here and there. Still wearing his swim trunks all day long, still hanging out with the same deadbeat friends. And by then, Fergus had already been starting to sense that something was bothering Andy, and he roughly attributed it to the fact that Andy has long since emotionally out-matured his job, but whatever it was, he wasn’t going to push it until Andy was ready to discuss it and…

And they did, eventually, well, sort of, not in so many words … but it was then, that Fergus realised something. Something that he couldn’t have even imagined because he’d never looked at it that way before. It didn’t even strike him until just after the conversation was over and - of course - he wasn’t about to bring it up again even if the thought did wonders for his ego. The price was too high and his love for Andy was greater than that puny selfish satisfaction that dwelling on this thought could bring. The satisfaction that would be non-existing anyway if this was, meanwhile, hurting his partner. 

‘He’s worried that I’m out of his league.’

Well, not in those exact words, of course, because hardly anyone could come to think this after a decade together, but the expression came handy. And yeah, he probably was – Andy, that is - thinking that he wasn’t progressing – professionally, at least - at Fergus’ rate, but that wasn’t even a problem in and of itself, not to Fergus, anyway. Rather, he found the very fact that this bothered his partner disheartening.

But he wasn’t about to lecture Andy. He wasn’t always good at putting thoughts into words and on that particular night – the night of the conversation - Andy was already feeling down. He was uncharacteristically silent and distracted, *withdrawn* as Fergus liked to call it in his head, and Fergus knew that he needed another measure. He didn’t know of a good one. So, he made one up. 

 

In the dimness of their bedroom, he let Andy undress him. He stood in front of him, completely silent, face unreadable, his pressed shirt and tie. And Andy looked at him with those serious grey eyes for a good long while, before he proceeded to take those things off of him, piece by piece. He did it slowly and deliberately, his fancy cuff links, his tie, his shirt, his gold watch, his black leather belt. And only after everything was in a pile of stuff on the floor did Fergus react by, in two swift motions, yanking the T-shirt and trunks off of Andy. And he threw them into the same pile, then pushed the pile aside. Then they just stood there, looking at each other.

And, as they were standing like that, there was nothing at all to tell which one wore which clothes, which one occupied which post, which one commanded people and which one served them. Now, they were just two lovers in the privacy of their bedroom, two people with no indications, no marks, no signs or clues to put them into one category or another.

He took a step towards Andy and, per his habit, putting his hand on the back of Andy’s neck and drawing him in, kissed him. He didn’t do it in a sexual manner, and he didn’t do it for too long, and when he was done, he took a step back and looked at him. Whether it was strange to Andy at all and whether he actually could understand what Fergus was trying to do, Fergus could not know, but he didn’t worry about it either, because after a few seconds, Andy took a step towards him, and this time *Andy* kissed *him*. 

And Fergus just let him do it. He didn’t overpower him, didn’t usurp control over the kiss, didn’t do any of the things he would have normally done with him, he just *let him do it*. And even though Andy kissed differently – he did it gentler, by placing his hands on Fergus’ waist and bending his neck sharply to the side - when he momentarily pulled away afterwards, Fergus could see his own sentiment reflected clearly in Andy’s eyes. 

And then Andy smiled – half-smiled, half-chuckled – and stepped closer again, this time properly leaning into Fergus, melting his own body to fit into his contours, wrapping himself in a cloud of his warmth. And from that point on, the night proceeded very much as usual, really, with any concept of leagues as foreign and out of place as any - as it should be! – especially where two people in love are concerned. 

 

 

The ginger underdog came back into the kitchen and distracted Fergus from his musings. The intern was carrying his own and his buddy’s dirty mugs. He smiled at Fergus awkwardly, barely making eye contact, then stuck the mugs into the dishwasher and practically losing his shoes, ran out. But Fergus mentally only shrugged his shoulders. The underdogs would learn. He reckoned it would still be a good couple of months until they felt comfortable calling him “Fergs” and inviting him with to grab a sandwich at lunch breaks. Those things didn’t always come right away. Sometimes people noticed the leagues first and the humanity second. Sometimes, they had to learn to see past the superficial layer. But that was alright, Fergus reckoned. It was alright - as long as they learnt.

 

***


End file.
